Cambridge Afternoon
by natterjack
Summary: Ian and Barbara have time to reflect when the TARDIS brings them to Cambridge just a few years in their future.


**Cambridge Afternoon**

Ian gazed into the sluggish river as it swirled around the piers of the bridge. The ancient stone of the balustrade, warm from the spring sunshine, felt solid, comfortable and homely beneath his elbows.

They had arrived, this time, in Cambridge in May of 1973: nearly ten years into the future. Not some remote, otherworldly future this time: not an impossibly distant and _different_ future, but in Ian and Barbara's own personal future. A future where, if they had never followed Susan that evening, they would still be alive and living their normal, everyday lives.

It wasn't exactly ten years any more, of course: they had been travelling for some time now. Exactly how long, neither Barbara nor he could really say for sure. They had tried to keep diaries, but time and again these had been lost as they made a hasty getaway, confiscated as they were imprisoned, or even burned in a desperate attempt to keep warm. Ian thought it was perhaps eighteen months now, but he wouldn't have been surprised to learn that it was only half that, or twice as long, or even more.

Somehow it wasn't real time, though. Yes, his body was still physically aging - or so he supposed – and in many ways it all felt _more_ real: he had felt more alive since he stepped into the TARDIS that first time than he had since… well, perhaps forever. But it was so utterly different, so separate from his life before meeting the Doctor, that it couldn't possibly be marked off on an ordinary calendar hanging on a wall somewhere. He still held on to the belief, or hope, or just… possibility that one day they would get back home. That they would walk back out of that scrapyard, cross the road and get back into his car. And that when they did he could finally release the breath that he had somehow been holding ever since this had all begun. And then time - real time - would start up again.

But could it start again now instead?

~~oOo~~

Barbara turned into the shaded alley, and took her sunglasses off. She'd been too distracted to think things over at first. The extraordinary fashions that some of the students wore: the wide flared jeans, the long skirts, the hair! She chided herself for bothering with such things, and would never have admitted it to Ian, but even though she had seen far, far stranger clothing elsewhere - and elsewhen - it was here, on streets that looked so normal otherwise, that they seemed so very outré.

And the prices! It was all decimal. One of the first things that had drawn her attention to Susan, back in Shoreditch a lifetime ago, was when the mysterious girl had been so embarrassed in front of the class because she "thought that we were on the decimal system". Barbara had forgotten about it until now, but had burst out laughing when she noticed it today.

Once they had discovered where and when they were, the Doctor had wanted to go off and speak to someone called… Hawkins, was it, about black holes or something, and had then started on one of his lectures about not interfering, but Barbara had cut him short and assured him that they had both learned their lessons very well by now, and that they would be on their best behaviour. It looked like a very pleasant day and they would be happy to enjoy a quiet stroll in the city by themselves, thank you very much. The Doctor then started muttering about someone called Otis, and another called Blinovitch, and something about having respect for his seniority as he took his stick, thrust out his chin and headed off. As usual, she and Ian had understood very little, but it didn't matter this time.

Neither of them had wanted to state the obvious before then, and it wasn't until they were settled in a teashop – after selling a remarkably well preserved didrachm to a numismatist - that she eventually suggested it to Ian.

They could say that they had been abroad: teaching in some particularly remote part of Africa perhaps. It was quite a gap to fill, and they might look just a little young, but people would soon accept them back, she was sure. If they actually _wanted_ to be back, that is: to stop travelling.

They had been close before: in Scotland in the 1950s, but then they had the opposite problem. They would have had to live other lives - until they "caught up", at least. This way it would be simpler. It might be the best chance they would get. But did they want to take that chance?

They had decided to think it over. They knew that the Doctor would be hours yet and that they would almost certainly end up waiting for him on Parker's Piece - where the TARDIS had materialised - since he had not deigned to give them a key so far.

Barbara couldn't recall which of them had first suggested spending time alone to think but, after the teashop, they had parted. They had both been to Cambridge independently in the past and so had some idea of their way around. Ian had headed towards the Backs, but Barbara had meandered through the streets and the market and, now, had turned into this picturesque little alley. There looked to be a bookshop a short way down. She had always loved antiquarian books and Cambridge was full of specialist shops such as this one, often tucked away in the most obscure backstreets.

As she approached the shop, Barbara was wondering exactly how much she would be able to tell her mother. Would it be safe to tell her any of the truth? But, then again, could she really lie convincingly to her? She brushed her fingers idly along the spines of the cheap volumes in the boxes below the awning and gazed at her reflection in the shop window.

Something looked familiar behind the rippled glass, and her eyes focussed on a large, slightly faded volume: _Accounts and Codices of pre-Columbian Central America_. She had owned a copy, a gift to her from her supervisor when she had finally completed her dissertation. She had loved the book and its wonderful illustrations, but oh, how wrong she now knew some of the interpretations to be!

When she had left, back in 1963, her copy was still on its shelf beside her bed: where would it be now, she wondered? This was a copy of the same edition - probably the only edition - and she was suddenly curious to read through one or two of the more wildly inaccurate passages again.

The bell above the door sounded as she entered the shop, and the balding man behind the counter looked up over his glasses briefly to acknowledge her before returning to his reading. The dark, cramped room was full of the distinctive smoke-and-leather aroma of the expensive and well cared for books that lined the walls. As her eyes adjusted, Barbara was pleased to notice that there were two other customers browsing the shelves. She would have to ask for the book from the window, and the presence of other customers would diffuse both the shopkeeper's scrutiny and her embarrassment when she did not buy the book.

The shopkeeper efficiently retrieved the book for her when she asked, seeming to be content with clipped exchanges in library-quiet tones, before busying himself with rearranging an unruly shelf in the opposite corner of the room.

Barbara placed the heavy volume on a walnut side-table with exaggerated care before opening it. She had intended to open the book to the contents page, but the first few leaves slid through her fingers, and it was the title page that lay open before her now, complete with a faint pencilled inscription – an inscription that she recognized.

 _To Barbara,_

 _With confidence that your future will take you to great places._

 _Dr. Oscar Somerville_

This was her copy: the very book that she had kept beside her bed. How could it have got here?

But there was something else on the page too. An addition to the inscription that she did not recognise, written in a different hand:

 _It will. Keep going._

 _B_

It was in her own handwriting.

~~oOo~~

The trill of a bicycle bell brought Ian out of his reverie, and he looked round as a pair of students rode past. From the back, he honestly couldn't tell if they were male, female or one of each. Had barbers been wiped out by some giant… mutant… star-goat or something in the last ten years he wondered?

He knew that the Doctor would tell him not to, but he had decided to do it anyway. He had known Terry Childers since childhood. They were in the same class together: next to each other on the register. That was how they had become friends in the first place. They didn't see much of each other these days – in 1963, that is – but they still exchanged that same pair of socks back and forth each birthday, and swapped cards at Christmas. Terry had moved to Cambridge in late 1961. He could easily still be here in 1973. Ian was going to find a phone book and call him. He would muffle his voice or something and ask about Ian: about himself.

He had forgotten how small a phone box could be inside, but at least this one was fairly clean and had the directories in place. He slapped the grubby book on to the ledge and began flicking through: C, Ca, Ce, Cha , Che… He stopped.

 _Chesterton, Ian. Dr. …42 Milden Cl_

Terry was suddenly forgotten. His eyes had automatically found the name in the listings, but was this just… A Doctor? In Cambridge? No. There were plenty of Ian Chestertons about. It must be a coincidence.

But he had already made the decision: he was going to call. And in some ways he would rather speak to a stranger who happened to share his name, and claim it was a wrong number, than try to put on some silly accent to fool Terry.

He lifted the receiver and fumbled through the change from the teashop for the correct coins. He had to read through the instructions to see how much was needed in these New Pence.

Checking the number again, he dialled. What exactly was he going to say? Would he be in? If, by any chance he was about to speak to himself, would he recognise his own voice? And would _he_ recognise _his_ own voice? The phone rang. Perhaps he should have called Terry after all…

Someone picked the phone up. Ian could hear a child squealing in the background.

" _Hello?_ " said a voice: a woman's voice. No, not a woman's voice. It was Barbara.

Ian's finger hovered over button "A", his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

" _Hello?_ " Barbara repeated, " _Oh, just a minute please_ ". The receiver was muffled as she turned away and called out " _John Alydon Ganatus Chesterton will you be quite please? Mummy's talking on the phone!_ "

Ian put the receiver down, and by force of habit pressed button "B".


End file.
